


Patterns

by derangedfangirl



Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:21:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derangedfangirl/pseuds/derangedfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maverick and Iceman have a pattern, and it doesn't involve talking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patterns

  
Maverick and Iceman have a pattern, and it doesn’t involve talking.

Even as they lay there, panting, Ice’s sweaty sheets tangled around their legs tangled around each other, listening to the rhythm of each others' breath as it deepens in sleep, the pattern maintains.  

Sometimes Maverick will snore, lightly, and Iceman finds that to be weirdly fitting.

In the morning, of course, Ice will pull himself out of the warm cocoon that is his bed and make breakfast for himself- Mitchell never stays, he just blows out of Ice’s place like a hurricane; messy and predictably unpredictable.

Iceman has a collection of Maverick’s shit laying on his counter.  A sock, three pens, a pair of faded blue boxers with a hole in the thigh, a sweatshirt, a pair of sunglasses, some cheap cufflinks.  The pile accumulates more bits and bobs every time Mav enters his house, because he’s always in such a damn rush to get out, such a whirlwind, that Ice doesn’t have time to snark at him about leaving his crap all over.  And so the pile grows.  

They have a pattern, Maverick and Iceman.  

Ice leans against the headboard, boneless and relaxed.  Mitchell flops out across his lap, head resting on top of Ice’s thighs, and looks up at him.  He folds one arm behind his head, hand coming to rest almost possessively near Ice’s flaccid dick, perfect picture of cocky masculine satiation as though he had been the one pounding Ice’s ass rather than the other way around.  

‘Study of a young pilot, Nude.’  Ice snorts at that, eyes tracing the outline of faded water stains on his ceiling, thumb rubbing absently across the hot flesh on Mav’s bare shoulder, lips quirking at the way goosebumps rise in response.  When he glances up, Maverick looks contemplative- a dangerous look on him, to be sure.    
“Hey Ice?”

The man in question blinks- Mitchell is breaking pattern.  That is unusual, no matter what Maverick thinks of himself, and Ice’s thumb halts its lazy journey across sweat slicked skin.  Clears his throat.

“Hm?”

“Have you ever…” Maverick pauses, his voice uncharacteristically soft, and this is enough to make Ice glance down at his face.  He’s blushing, honest to god blushing, and that’s bizarre because the only time Ice has ever seen the man flushed is when they’re either fighting or fucking, and he’s fairly certain neither is imminent.  He doesn’t say anything, just waits.  Maverick’s hazel eyes close, long, dark eyelashes fanning across his cheekbones, those two beguiling spots of color still high on his cheeks.  Mav swallows, teeth scraping across his lower lip for half a second, and Ice can literally _see_ the decision to throw caution to the wind and just blurt out whatever he wants to say cross his face the second before he says-

“Have you ever done this before?”

Ice snorts, pretends to misunderstand.

“I’ve been doing this with _you_ , dipshit, for the past six weeks.”

Maverick rolls his eyes and lands a lazy, if sharp, smack directly to Ice’s bared belly, and Ice watches with some interest as a dusky pink print in the shape of Maverick’s hand blooms atop the lightly tanned skin.  “ ‘S not what I meant and you know it, shithead.  I mean, y’know.  Have you been with men before now?”  The words ‘before me’ go unspoken, and Iceman pretends he doesn’t hear them.

“You asking if I’m a fag, Mitchell?” Ice asks, and he knows it comes across more “asshole” than “blunt”, but he doesn’t particularly care.  Maverick flinches, just a bit, and his eyes snap open, sparking with annoyance.  

“No.  Well, kind of, I guess.  But if you were, it wouldn’t make any difference to m-”

Ice’s eyes roll so hard it looks like he’s trying to glare at his own brain.  For the first time, he has the urge to throw Maverick out, but he resists, because the man doesn’t sound particularly malicious, just curious and maybe like he wants to live vicariously through Ice or something.  

“Yeah, Maverick.  I’ve been with guys before.  Been with women, too, before you ask-” he adds when Mav looks like he’s about to open his mouth to interrupt, “but that had more to do with… You know.”

Maverick nods; he does know.  He feels a momentary pang for Iceman- Mav may be a little bi around the edges, but there's no doubt he'll marry a woman, have 2.5 kids, and, so long as he doesn’t totally lose his head, avoid a dishonorable discharge with relative ease.  

“Yeah, well… You were my first.” Maverick grins, and it was supposed to come out cheeky, but once the words hit the air they sound just a little bit vulnerable.  Ice’s chin tips down and he meets Mav’s eyes, like a double take, like he’s wondering if he misheard, but the man’s face is open- not that Maverick’s ever been a master of controlling his emotions- and something, he’s not sure what, but something makes Ice brush the corner of his mouth with the back of his knuckles and give him a little smile (a real one, not a smirk or his toothy shark-grin, but a little smile, soft with a touch of fondness he’ll roundly deny in the morning) before he tips his head back again, staring at the ceiling.  He rolls the words around in his mouth for a few seconds.

“Alright, go ahead.  Ask.” Iceman sighs, long-suffering, and Maverick widens his eyes innocently.  One golden eyebrow inches toward his hairline, and Mav laughs, giggles really, and flips over on his stomach, props his chin up on his hands, and kicks his feet like a little kid.  

“You look like my sister, Mitchell.  She’s 14.” Ice informs him cooly.

“Christ, man, you suck off your little sister?  That’s fucked up, even for you.”

Iceman cuffs his ear at ‘even for you’, giving him a look, and Maverick blushes deep and red- “That’s not what I meant…” he mutters quietly.  Ice believes him, but it’s fun to watch Maverick squirm, so he holds his glare for a second longer.  

“Who was the first guy you ever..” he trails off- fucked? dated? liked? Maverick has no idea how to finish the sentence, because he and Iceman have a pattern, and it doesn’t involve talking.  

“The first man I ever had a ‘crush’ on…” Ice begins, adopting a tone that reminds Maverick of his grandmother, startling a bark of laughter which he stifles when Ice glares at him again, “Was Jim Morrison.  A little before my time, but my mom had some records, and the guy on the cover gave me funny feelings in my tummy.  Not, like, sexual, just… y’know.  I was… Shit.  8, maybe?”

Maverick starts laughing, hard, the sound bubbling out of him like a new bottle of champagne, almost like he can’t stop, and Iceman feels suddenly sick to his stomach, regret shooting through him like lightning or maybe a knife-

“Ice-  _Shit_ -” Maverick is still giggling, clutching his belly with mirth, and Ice crosses his arms, tries to school his face back into the icy mask that earned him his call-sign, “Goddamn, man, you’re telling me you’ve been a narcissist from birth?”

Iceman blinks.  That… was not the ending to Maverick’s bout of hilarity he’d expected.  He’d expected something more along the line of offensive slurs, vague threats of blackmail, _‘Jesus Christ, Kazansky, you really are a fucking fag, aren’t you?'_

“What?” he asks, low and maybe a little harsh because Maverick stops laughing and just looks up at him, and maybe he’s getting closer than is wise, because he seems to realize, to see him-

“Ice, man… You can’t tell me you’ve never noticed.”  Mav’s voice is gentle, if amused, like he’s taming a horse or a toddler, and Iceman bristles, jerking his head back and forth in a silent ‘no’.  “Are you serious?”

Ice rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to order Mitchell to either explain or shut the fuck up, so he continues, quickly- “You’ve never noticed how much you _look_ like him?”

This time it’s Iceman’s turn to snort with laughter and stare at Maverick like he’s insane.  “The fuck’s wrong with your eyes, Mav?  We gonna have to ground you?”  

“I’m serious, man!” and he is, Ice can tell- he’s the very picture of sincerity, “Add some hair, dye it brown, do a little heroin… Yeah, you’d look good in leather pants, Ice.”

Iceman blushes and stutters, because he still doesn’t think it’s true, but it’s damn flattering that Maverick does, and then Maverick’s giggling again, and Ice can’t manage much aside from “Shut up, I’m not a narcissist.”  Mav leans up and kisses him, lips still pulled into a grin, and must be infectious, because Ice flips them on a whim, pinning Maverick under him with an exaggerated little growl, then it’s all hands and mouths and sometimes teeth- Ice can’t get over how he can let loose with Maverick, never has to worry about hurting him because he trusts the man to hold his own, and if one or both occasionally shows up with a shiner or a split lip, no one ever mentions it.

Later, Iceman stares up at the ceiling, listening to the steady rhythm of Maverick’s snoring, enjoying the warm puffs of air against his chest, and he smiles softly.

Iceman and Maverick have a pattern, but tomorrow morning, Maverick will stay for breakfast, and Iceman will wear the apron that says “kiss the cook” in pepto bismol pink script, pretending it’s to keep his uniform clean even though they both know it’s to make Maverick laugh.  They will kiss, and Maverick will taste like too-sweet coffee and Ice’s mouthwash.  

Ice and Maverick have a pattern, but maybe, Ice thinks, it’s not such a bad pattern to break.


End file.
